It's All About the Lines

To the surprise of absolutely no one who knows me, I am a bit of a slob. Not a ‘half-empty cans of Coke everywhere’ kind of guy, but more like a ‘why is there a sock in the refrigerator’ kind of guy. I do clean my apartment on a regular schedule, but I confess that I’m just not very good at it.

You see, as a lad, I worked with my dad a lot. He was a contractor and I basically grew up on construction sites. I could literally build a deck when I was twelve. I also learned to swear and had strong opinions about trucks and tools, as well as a plethora of confusing ideas regarding women, divorce, the government, France, and women (again). This is what happens when you leave an eight-year-old alone with construction workers for extended periods of time. 

NOTE: I am in no way demeaning construction workers. I’m sure that I’d grown up surrounded by investment bankers, I’d have gotten equally weird information.

The upshot of this is that I never really learned to clean. My duties around the house consisted of dusting, cleaning up dog poop/vomit, and vacuuming. The vacuuming took the longest amount of time, but I learned to get the lines right.

Fast forward a long time and here I am, living on my own and in charge of an entire apartment. I do clean regularly (the vacuum lines are PERFECT!), but I’m at a bit of a loss when cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms. I spray a lot of stuff that has ‘BLEACH’ in bold letters on the bottle and then wipe it off. Despite my best efforts, the kitchen and bathroom still look like a yeti sneezed on every surface and then wiped it off with its underwear. Yes, I am assuming Yeti wear underwear. Prove me wrong.

Imagine my surprise and delight then, when my apartment complex ran a special in conjunction with a maid service. They would come in and clean for half-price and your email address, so they could market at you for the rest of time.

I went for it.

One week later, two middle aged ladies and one younger one showed up at my door. I showed them around, told them not to pull the cord on the cobra trap, pointed out the stake-lined pit, then went into my office to work on something. They came in for a few minutes, to vacuum (decent lines, not great) and dust, then left me alone. They finished in about forty-minutes and left. I stumbled out of the office a bit later and beheld a strange sight.

My kitchen gleamed like a disco ball in a tanning booth. I could actually see my reflection on the stove clearly enough to recoil in horror. My bathroom was much the same. Part of me now wants to chase down those ladies and with an offering of latex gloves, learn the ways of the master.

However, there is a downside. Not wanting to ruin the perfection that my kitchen now had, I built a fire pit in my living room and now only cook there. Chicken is pretty easy, but you have to be careful shoving a skewer through a Pop-Tart.

Don’t ask how I’m getting around not using the bathroom.

Cheers,

-Jason